


Homeshots

by Throbbingtrouserferret (SubordinateClaws)



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:22:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubordinateClaws/pseuds/Throbbingtrouserferret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of Homestuck one shots. For once, shots is not referring to bullets.<br/>A sample of the quotes within: <i></i><br/>"RIDING WHITE HOOFBEASTS, THEIR EBONY KERATIN FILAMENTOUS BIOMATERIAL FLOWING GRACEFULLY IN THE BREEZE LIKE SILK HELD IN FRONT OF AN INDUSTRIAL AIR VACATOR."<br/>“Willy Taft and Roosevelt’s badger, put your clothes back on.”<br/>"I like humorous men with mustaches and an occasional tendency to play on the wild side of life. If I could get coffee in that flavor, I would. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> "Insomnia"  
> This is yet another story where I started by telling myself 'write something simple'.  
> And then my thought processes were like 'Fuck you'.  
> And then we have this.

Dirk sits alone in a grass field, looking up at the sky. It’s blue, rich in hue, vast in the infinite lack of interest it provides. A cloud drifts past now and again. Though they all feature minimal differences, slight nuances that grant them a sparing notion of individuality; they all seem the same to him. One somewhat misshapen white cloud after another, no apparent difference. No variety. No purpose. Much like them, Dirk doesn’t feel himself to have any particular purpose at the moment, though occasionally, every now and then, he thinks he can lay claim to one.

His thoughts begin to drift, one coalescing into another, his eyes closing beneath his shades.  
  
“Dirk!” And then there was Jake. Jake stands dressed in attire only someone who had not only embodied, but consumed an _entire_ candy store could admire. His shirt is pink, his pants are pink, his shoes are pink. His hair? Would you look at that- Pink. Even his saccharine inward nature couldn't prevent his appearance from seeming absurd.  “I have been waiting an awfully long time for you to join me. Take a seat, would you?” Jake gestures to a lonely looking pink table with pink heart-shaped chairs, the white cushions on them reminiscent of whipped cream in form- And how lucky it is there's no cherry on top of them. Dirk, while confused, obliges to Jake’s request by pulling out the chair closest to him and sitting down.

Until Jake sits down across from him, his eyes are forced to roam across the bright pink candy-print walls and floors, judiciously analyzing the nuances that construct the aesthetically unappealing whole. The texture of the walls gives the sense that a large quantity of gum was squashed, chewed and melded together, different spots of the walls jutting out and caving in with no apparent pattern in mind. Embedded within the walls are ice cream, chocolates, strawberries, hard candies, soft candies, candycanes, candy- Why, it’s as if the game and cast of Candyland came to life and started projectile vomiting everywhere! The wave of ocular offense almost prevents Dirk from turning his eyes back toward Jake. 

  
As if unphased by Dirk's turn of attention, Jake kept his own attention fixated on Dirk's visage. He looks at Dirk with a dreamy, hazed look in his eyes, idly tracing his pink-gloved finger in circles across the pink table. It jumps and halts along with his words, accentuating without attenuating. “I made a brief mention that my wait was long, but I do not believe I specified just how long that awfully long while appeared to be to me. It has been a *terribly, awfully, frightfully* long wait, and every minute has been a test of my rapidly reducing patience. But now you are here. Alone with me.” Jake's fingers walk along the table toward Dirk, and Dirk is quick to slap his hand.

While having what _appeared_ to be flirting on Jake's part occur was exhilarating in the sense that Jake never flirted with anything living or existent, it almost felt too incorrect to validate. Wasn't that it wasn't charming, it was just extremely bizarre. Unusual. Kind of _alarming_ , really. “Three whole adjectives, none of which applicable to a time frame ubiquitously understood. Awesome tactic for building understanding." Dirk straightens himself out in his chair, his arms now folded in front of him to act as a makeshift rampart.

  
All of this earns laughter on Jake's part. It comes out in a slightly different manner than his usual tone. Where his usual tone admittedly emanated a sense of levity, this laugh seemed over the top to the point where it almost seemed hollow. Euphonious, chimey, chipper, weightless, hollow. Dirk would even go so far as to use the grotesque modifier ‘bubbly’. Jake’s hands move to either side of his own face, leaning forward slightly on the table. He props himself up with both elbows, his ass propped high in the air, swaying as if impatient for something to happen. His eyes remain trained on the ones beneath the dark glass of Dirk's shades, not faltering even when Dirk shifts his rampart forward a little for safety's sake.

Absolutely ridiculous.

  
“You are such a prime source of hilarity, bro! A shame that you seldom ever chortle, and way more of a shame that you are such a bitter wit. Some days its really like the only jokes you make are ones to make others look empty in the skull and tactless with the tongue. But perhaps…….” Jake reaches a hand out, lightly tapping Dirk on the nose with a finger. “You are the only one wise enough to point those idiosyncrasies out. How ever would we know otherwise? And to think, you are given little recompense for your differences, as well as little appreciation for your efforts. It must be such a lonely realm, the realm of your mind. The realm of your beautiful, beautiful, lonely mind.” Jake’s hand retracts, sighing. As his gaze shifts around the various components of Dirk's darling face, his derriere continues its impudent, anime-like sway.

  
Dirk thinks he might be sick.  
“My mind, and me, are not lonely. I have plenty of people to talk with, okay? Plenty of things occupying my time. A lonely situation is one where you feel as though there is a missing portion in your life despite the fact that you are probably reaching the extent of the positives you might incur anyway. I feel complete. Not lonely."

  
Jake gasps, moving his hands out just slightly as if making room for his cheeks to expand. He rolls over on the table, resting his shoes on the top of the chair he once sat in. His arms move to fold over on his chest. “What use is having many ears if none of them understand? What use is having plenty of things to steal away time if you don’t want what has been stolen? That sounds like a bunch of hogwash you just spoke, another note in your grand little facade of stability. Inner Dirk, deep down in the nihilism and manga jargon, is screaming for another soul to relate and play with. Dare I say you are ACHING for another being to encapsulate the catacombs of your memories and take you hand in hand out of the obscurity you are not nested in, but caged in! " Jake holds his hands out to Dirk dramatically, a determined look on his face.

Dirk swats his hands away.  
Mild irritation is evident in Dirk by the slight quirk of one corner of his mouth. “Lately, it feels like I’m either perceived as having an obnoxious amount of problems, or an obnoxious lack of faults. I’m not perpetuating any facades. I’m maintaining variable levels of sincerity. I'm content with my life, even though genuine happiness is something I've yet to feel. Now, seeing as you’re dedicating your energy to egregious amounts of bullshit, it shouldn’t be a hardship to redirect a modicum of it to perceiving me accurately.”

  
Jake frowns, not only in response to striking one of Dirk's many nerves. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet, dammit! I thought you loved philosophy!”

  
At this, Dirk has to pause. He has to pause hard. He tilts his head to the left a little, his initial confusion fading into the ecstasy of extreme confusion. “…..Regardless of vaguely speaking about something I like, it was because you hadn’t explicitly given me permission to? Or even given the slightest indication that was your intent, for that matter."

  
Jake’s frown turns upside down. “Here I thought you were a commonplace wolf! A real megalomaniac! An atrocity! Here’s to proving me wrong, bro!”

  
At this, Dirk decides he will venture elsewhere. Can’t hurt. Moving away from the table, he gets an inkling that poking around the obnoxious ornaments in the rightmost corner of the room would be providential. They seem gaudy enough to constitute portals. In his search for an end to this nonsense, Dirk accidentally steps into a puddle of chocolate. The chocolate begins to move up his legs,  causing him to glow and subsequently deteriorate. He doesn't know what is happening, he doesn't know where he's going, he just knows he's off somewhere that isn't here.

At this, the pink Jake's eyes progressively widen. He runs over to hug him, as if that would stall the process- Tragically too late.  
“Don’t go!! Please!” Pink Jake takes a pink kerchief out of his pink pockets, biting on it tentatively. His hips sway impatiently, his eyes fixated on the spot Dirk once was. He muffles out: “Wedidn’tgettohaveanyfunyet.” His eyes drift to the disgusting gum ceiling, his feet stomping on the floor.

* * *

 

  
 Dirk's fall is unforgiving and painful.

  
  He ends up splayed out on pavement, not a candy drop, bar or land in sight. The only thing visible to him is the ceiling of what appears to be a tunnel. The tunnel is grey. Not pink. Quite thankfully, not pink. A turn of his head brings a sharp pain to come to his awareness, like a previously benign headache. Likely from the fall. Past the pain and past the unfamiliarity of his new area, Dirk comes to enough cognitive stability to realize he is moving. It’s somewhat of a slow, jerked movement, but it’s movement nonetheless. He looks northward, tiling his head back, noticing a hand dragging him. He looks toward where he once was, seeing an empty roadway increasingly dark with distance.  
He looks up again.  
Yep. Hand still present.

It rests on the uppermost portion of his shirt, near his shoulder area.  
With a slight turn of the head, Dirk notices that one hand is not one but two, and both of them belong to Jake. This Jake looks more normal. Black hair, unusually black jacket, red shades sitting on his head. His shirt is white with a red version of his skull on it.  
More normal, but not quite.  
Dirk looks to the side, inevitably keeping his glance on Jake when there was nothing else to see. “Where are we going?”  
Jake furrows his brows. He doesn’t respond.  
Dirk watches Jake’s expression carefully, questioning the lack of response.  
“I take it we lack a location then. If we did have one, big if, I could always walk.”  
Jake, without a change in his focused expression responds:  
“You cannot.”  
Dirk quirks a brow. “Why not?”  
“You cannot carry yourself.”  
Dirk begins to move his legs, trying to stand. The force pressing against him is a lot heavier here, almost as if gravity itself had changed. To test this, he attempts to move his left hand upward, which results in just about as much success as the movement of his leg. None. He tries harder. Nothing.  No matter how much Dirk tries, he cannot stand.  
“Oh.”  
Jake rolls his eyes. “OH IS RIGHT. YOU have no mind of the ins and outs of this particular area. I DO. Would it kill you to simply believe in me for a little while? What do I need to do to get that to happen more often? The versions of you that manifest in my dreams are more than willing to see that theres more to me than meets the eye, but it seems like the you I meet in person is more than willing to criticize first and believe later. *EVEN WHEN ITS CLEAR THAT I HAVE THE UPPER HAND*."  
Dirk remains silent a moment. “Am I kinky in your dreams?”  
Jake, looking unamused, gets Dirk out of the tunnel. He lays him in a patch of grass, near the opening to a forest. The end of the tunnel can still be seen, hazing over with a dark fog equal to the darkness seen in the distance.

With a testing movement of a leg upward, Dirk determines the gravity of the area appears to have become regular.

He moves his hands and stretches out a bit, only to be disrupted by Jake sitting on his midsection, red shades falling over his green eyes.

He looks vaguely pissed.

Kind of hot.

  
“My hypothetical kettle of patience is boiling over and the resulting steam has made the hollows of my mind intolerable. I demand respect! Just as you are able to aid me in MY adventures, I am able to help you in yours. It does not matter if its something large and in charge or something small and in withdrawal. No longer will I be the Robin to your Batman! We will be equals! We will co-Batman!!”  
Dirk, incapable of moving, just stays there.

“That last line had to be the dumbest thing I have ever heard in my life, but I think that’s understandable as a whole.” Dirk looks toward the forest, trailing his eyes back up to Jake’s face. “While I would love to discuss this further, my lungs are currently being pressed in by your legs. In exchange for regarding you more highly, would you get off me?”  
Punk Jake looks up, tapping a finger against his own cheek in mock-thought.

“Let me think…..No!” He looks back down at him, smirking. “I like you too much here.”  
He sits back a little on Dirk, his focus and frustration all but fading entirely. He moves his shades to rest on his head again, leaning down afterward. His hands move to rest on either side of Dirk’s face, gingerly moving his fingers up from Dirk’s cheeks to play with Dirk’s hairline, down again to brush against his warm cheeks. He slowly melts into a loving expression, murmuring: "We're equals now." His eyes are closed and his lips are hovering unreasonably close to Dirk’s when an opening forms in the ground. Dirk falls through, the hole covering up before punk Jake can even extend a hand down to catch him.

This earns an ungraceful shriek and clawing from punk Jake.

“No! Thats not fair! Absolutely not fair!! I TRIED SO HARD THIS TIME."

* * *

 

  
The fall is surprisingly a lot more kind to Dirk this time around.

Mainly because it keeps happening. In fact, Dirk is certain he’s slowly moving downward through air with the only light coming from above, the rock of the ground above shifting into a clear night sky. He is not freely falling, but he is caught in a freefall.  
A Jake with wings flies above him, laughing cheerily.

“You’re going to die!”

  
Something tells Dirk he’s going to like this Jake the least.

  
“That would be a facet of the human existence, yes. I am going to die.”  
Flying Jake touches Dirk’s arm, causing him to rapidly fall to the ground. He screams as he views buildings arch above him, the touch of the ground beneath him causing a sudden and agonizing spike of pain to shoot through him, as if he had ripped in half, bone by tender bone splicing at once. A darkness encompasses his vision, his consciousness drowning.....  
And suddenly, Dirk was back at his previous point in space, slowly falling again.

Jake remains in his previous spot, laughing as if there was an inside joke only he was informed of.  
“If you’re aware that death is inevitable, why did you still scream?”  
Dirk looks up. Not at Jake. Anywhere but that Jake.

“Because death is not the real fear. It’s the journey to and through death.”  
Jake drops him again.  
Dirk returns to his previous spot, panting. He places a hand on his forehead, trying to catch his breath.

“Lesson or not, could you cut that the fuck out?”  
Jake moves a hand as if he was going to drop Dirk once more and Dirk scrambles to hold his hands.

“No. Stop. Bad.” Dirk wheezes once.  
Jake looks annoyed.  
Dirk tentatively releases his hands, looking up at his face cautiously. Jake sighs, unaffected by Dirk’s plight. “You know how it is Dirk. You are supposed to die a thousand times for me without question. It doesn’t matter whether or not I benefit, it does not matter how fatuous the falls are. You simply must be willing to."  
Dirk suddenly thinks its a good idea to hold Jake’s hands again. “Really? I don’t see you dying for me.”  
Jake rolls his eyes. “Look harder.”  
In the distance, a faint green light darts downward.  
Angel Jake says: “789”  
Another green light darts downward.  
“790”  
Another one.  
“791!”  
Dirk shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that.”  
Jake sends him down again.

Dirk comes back up, turning around in place to hurl before talking to Jake more. “For the love of-”  
And with that, Jake smiles. “Precisely. For the love of."  
A golden glow appears around angel Jake’s hands as he sends Dirk down into the earth again. The pain is agonizing, but he thinks he can discern a faint image of a heart above him, formed with clouds in the night. Angel Jake reaches a hand out to him before his vision lapses into complete and utter darkness.

He doesn't return this time. There's only nothing.

It's hard for him to say where he has been caught, if he had been caught anywhere at all.

In the darkness he stirs, only for him to reappear-

* * *

  
Conscious.  
The room he’s in is initially blurry, but he looks up to see Jake in full clarity. Normal Jake. His eyes appear to be stained with a slight redness, a faint trail of mucous coming down from his nose. Dirk trails his vision across what he identifies as his own room to a fogged image of a tissue box, dragging his hand over to it in order to give Jake a tissue. In response to the wailing Jake was doing, a pulse rips through Dirk’s head, a light groan resulting from it. He's almost uncertain if he made the noise or not. He almost drops the tissue. Luckily, Jake takes it, muttering a hurried “thankyou” before blowing his nose. He switches between wiping and speaking now and again hurriedly, his feeble gentleman code prohibiting talking while looking like hell.

  
“Dirk! I was so worried! There you were carrying about on your typical way out and about- Hell I thought I could trust you to carry yourself and I would end up in a debacle of this sort- Anyway, you were in your favorite skyscraper when your gask mask malfunctioned! You just about suffocated out there! You were huffing and puffing and turning blue- And boy it was not any of the good shades of blue such as a cerulean blue but instead you were a sickly form of blue and fuck man.”  
Dirk presses a hand to the back of his own head. His head pulses again. He winces, confused but not as confused as he had been while sleeping.

Jake's eyes widen, then he turns his gaze away, smiling. “…….Um. Ehe. About that little pain you may or may not be feeling up in your noggin, dragging you up here really wasn’t the smoothest process. That is hardly relevant now because you are back. You’re back! You’re back and you’re well and you’re-”  
And with what little strength Dirk had, Dirk reaches up to kiss Jake, the real Jake, the only Jake. His Jake. His Jake that would hopefully be silent for one passing moment while his head sorted itself out.  
And just like that, with the feel of Jake's lips against his own, his breath is taken away again.

  
He refuses to sleep again.


	2. Alegory of the Naive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane has a mystery to solve involving none other than Roxy Lalonde!

It was a cold, dark monday evening, the patrons of Plato’s Cave filled with liveliness. Ignorance. A note of desolation played out and about on the tainted city streets as they chattered away about recent this and thats, who did this, who sold what, blind to the elephant in the room. Roxy Lalonde. 

Roxy Lalonde, otherwise known as a waitress for the charming cafe PC, was rumored to spend her time poking her nose where it shouldn’t be. Convolution steeps high in the world of human tongues, but it was my business as a lovely lady of the law to ensure that pretty little nose of hers only sniffs aromas it has a right to be sniffing. And government papers and black market deals are malodorous.

Now I am sure you are saying to yourselves “Who is this seductive, justice oriented lady of the night, and why is she chasing away at finding out the inner machinations of some high-stakes mystery?” Why, I am none other than Jane Crocker, sleuth at large, trench coat enthusiast, daughter who regularly calls her father because he makes a large ruckus when calls aren’t made every three days even though I am 25 years old. And between those calls, it is my job to have a top notch noggin-lock on debauchery so I can show it to the big man and get hooligans locked up in the slammer. Not my father, even though he is a big man. THE big man, as in the police, even though there are many respectable woman in the police force too and referring to the police in terms of one gender or another is kind of foolish in hindsight. 

Anyway. From my red booth, I kept my vision trained on Roxy as she tended to her customers at the counter, seemingly jovial about hiding nothing. But with my mind where it was, I knew she was hiding at least one thing. When my own waitress swung about, I politely ordered my usual. One cup of coffee. Ordering it was easy, decaf with a side of cream and sugar, because I like my coffee how I like my men. Actually, I don’t. That’s awfully silly, likening ones romantic choices to an aromatic beverage. I like humorous men with mustaches and an occasional tendency to play on the wild side of life. If I could get coffee in that flavor, I would. 

ANYWAY. Before my very attentive and courteous server swung back around, I passed Roxy a glance that indicated that I was hot on the trail to mussing up her little charade. It got a little hard at points to glare seriously because some blonde-haired, bird haired, Ben Stiller aviator wearing male across the way kept looking in my direction, and I would often switch between a glare and a mildly-unnerved smile. Additionally, my coffee was delicious, and occasionally a faint coffee mustache would land on me for being overzealous about drinking it. That also winded me up with a tongue burn or three, and it’s impossible to look menacing when you’re struggling to cure brief tongue ailments. 

ANYWAY!! It wasn’t long before Roxy made her way out of the establishment. Before she left, I adjusted my glasses and asked her if I could have a little sit down to talk out some things. She smiled and invited me to her home, like criminals often do, and I soon found myself putting on a nice blue dress, fixing my hair, and getting over there in a timely manner. 

Her actions struck me as questionable from the moment that she opened her door for me and let me in after a series of polite greetings. She offered to take my coat for me, warned me about some possible cat hair on her chairs, and complimented my dress. This piqued my interest as an investigator. Nobody could be that nice in such a short timeframe to a weirdo they met at work. 

I sat down, crossing my legs, beginning my interrogation. “So,” I dramatically paused for five minutes, looking to her walls. “Are you doing anything illegal?” 

She handed me my drink and laughed. “Janey, no. The only thing I’m doing that’s close to being illegal is keeping a buncha cats. Speaking of which because I probably haven’t brought it up yet, I made Frigglish a sweater the other day. Since he started wearing it, he likes to parade around liek he’s king of the kitties, but the ectobiologically created kittens in my lab aren’t having none of it.” 

HIGHLY SUSPECT ASSERTION, I thought. I inquired about this “lab” of hers, and wandered foot by foot with her down to her basement. She lead me out to a large room, filled with beakers and computers, codes and flasks, overwhelmingly mobbed by small, black fluffballs, which upon further inspection, proved to be kittens. 

“I know I was already a babe with an amazing personality, but I also love science. I’d be into magic if it wasn’t proven a shit load of times crossways and flipside to be made up. Probs because the world can’t handle a totes hot science wizard walking around.” She strolled to one of her cats, picking her up and petting her. 

“I do apologize for intruding upon your privacy like this, but does that mean you haven’t been doing anything reprehensible and/or stealing government papers and making black market transactions?” One of the kittens started pawing at the base of my leg. I picked it up to stop the heinous assault. 

“........No?” Roxy laughed. “If Dirk Strider told you that, it’s because he is a lameo nerd who said he would start telling lies if I didn’t make him an ectobunny.” In hindsight, taking any word from the mouth of a Strider and making it hyperbolic in order to make a friend with a gal you think is pretty cool is a poor way to spend time. Nevertheless, I believed her words.

Roxy and I spend the rest of the night chatting away over alcoholic beverages and pastries, hugging at the nights end as if we had been friends all of our lives. I was sad to leave her abode, but cheerful and more than a little hopeful for the future. Roxy promised to invite me over regularly, and I thought it best to return the notion. Next sunday, I’m planning on baking her an apology cake. 

And so, just like that, another Crocker mystery came to an end. 

Today, I sat upon the same booth, though I brought a copy of Problem Sleuth to read through as I had nobody to watch. As I was flipping through the pages, Roxy brought me over a coffee and a bizarre sealed envelope. I asked who wrote it, and she simply shrugged. With a wink, she suggested I find out for myself. 

Here is where I find myself, steeped in doubt, curiosity, and mild amounts of alarm.  
Looking down, the envelope reads:  
“To the exceptionally pretty girl sitting over by the window  
(fuck this is the worst opening ever)  
(did i write that in pen)”

And so, today's mystery begins!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear. How do I go about solving this......  
> [Slaps on mustache]  
> SIR, DO YOU FIND ME ATTRACTIVE??????


	3. The Walking Dorks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This might be a rare case of a set of written works eventually.  
> Jake and Dirk suffer the plights associated with living in a zombie apocalypse.

“You’re absolutely positive that the rations are low, correct?” Dirk walks over to the storage room, checking the food supply. While it was far from barren, certain necessities were definitely verging on depleted. Their current supply was a result of raiding they had done early into the infestation, when zombie population numbers were low enough to hardly warrant concern. Many of them were jailed or imprisoned to prevent contamination, but as the uncontrolled few still walked out on the streets, numbers continued to grow. 

“I told you a million and one times that it was. I would not be bringing the matter up unless a lighter was sweeping dangerously close to our derrieres. And let me tell you, I can feel an exceptionally exquisite flesh dinner in the works, what with the oil supply going as it is.” Jake paces across the living room, tugging at his hair. While the movement of his feet is loud, verging upon stomping, he’s careful not to scuff up the floor. 

“I’m going to have to leave soon.” Dirk places a hand over his face, clenching his hand slightly as he thinks over the possibilities. “We can’t let this linger any longer. It’s been problematic enough waiting as long as we have, but if I can just leave and secure even a meager amount of oil……” 

Jake looks at him, his frustrated expression melting into one of seething anger. “You know full well that if you leave, I leave! It doesn’t matter if I have to use a rock while you swing your sword about, I can protect myself just fine. Waiting around here isn’t going to do me any justice, anyway. There’s no excitement! No joy! There’s not even anything to do except sulk. It’s just anguish, anxiety and waiting- Dag blasted periods of waiting and waiting for a solution or death…I’m tired of it! I’m tired of all of this! And….” Jake’s fists began to shake, both of them balled into tight fists. “. …..and I’ll be damned if I breathe a day you don’t!” 

Dirk’s eyes widen beneath his shades, his expression softening. “Jake…..”

Dirk and Jake had decided to house themselves in a small house in the outskirts of a city, rural enough to avoid a majority of the walking dead, urban enough to make the acquisition of sustenance easy. So long as they avoided illness and watched how much energy they were expending, it was possible to get as far as the core of the neighboring city and back in one piece. Considering that the hordes of monstrosities thickened and thickened with each and every passing day, this distance was not a guarantee but a passing, false promise. Each and every day, their hopes for survival diminished. Each and every day, their lives hung by a thinner and thinner string. Their only solidarity was in each other. 

Meanwhile, Roxy and Jane are driving an oversized jeep, shooting and hitting zombies with pipes and gatling guns as they see them. Laughter fills the air as a trail of gore is left in their wake. 

“I’m sorry. I have to go alone.” Dirk walks into the living room, facing Jake. “Our odds are better this way.”

Jake punches Dirk’s arm. “Screw odds! We’ve defied them before!” 

Ignoring Jake’s gesture with a shift of the eyes, Dirk begins unbuttoning his shirt. “That doesn’t mean we will get to defy them again.”

“Of course we wi-” Jake looks at Dirk, his anger slipping into confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Oh. Don’t worry about it, it’s not going to be a last embrace sort of thing. I’m taking proper precautionary measures for walking outdoors again.” Dirk unbuttons his shirt completely, taking it off. He sets it on a chair, folding it over the top neatly, going to unzip his pants. 

Jake’s glasses fog and the look of anger returns. “Have you gone mad? You’re going outdoors! At least the first notion made sense!” He places his hands over his glasses for good measure. 

“No, dude.” Dirk drops his pants. “It makes perfect sense. Due to the widespread hysteria over being eaten, most people grew a strong reluctance to be caught in situations where they felt vulnerable. Water supplies have become geared toward drinking, negating showers as a commonality. Sleeping in the nude now seems like a terrible idea, and sex expends too much energy to be a regular ordeal.” He places his hands over his boxers. “That means the largest amount of victims are clothed. Seeing as zombies don’t preoccupy themselves with appearances, they seldom put clothes on or off. The likelihood of being nailed off by a hysterical non-zombie is almost even with being zombified.” He begins to pull down his boxers. “That being stated, the only logical way to annihilate half the threat is by roaming nude. Not to mention nobody cares about decency when everything is indecent.”

Jake shakes his head. “Thats cockamamie douche blathering if I’ve ever heard it! Zombie or not, wouldn’t people hunt down the streakers first?” He lowers his hands, quickly placing them back up. “Willy Taft and Roosevelt’s badger, put your clothes back on.” 

“Come on. People are only going to nail off streakers first if they aint got a show to go along with the stage.” He stretches, walking over to pick up his sword. “Figure I’ll be aesthetically safe.”

“That has to be the stupidest thing I have ever heard out of your mouth and I haven’t heard many stupid things out of it to begin with. Has the virus begun to melt your brain perchance? Am I witnessing the beginnings of your demise?” 

Dirk raises an eyebrow. “So, you’re looking then?”

Jake turns red, beginning to perspire in a less than ideal manner. “NO. HYPOTHETICALLY, IF I WAS LOOKING YOUR WAY *WHICH I AM NOT*, THEN I WOULD BE WITNESSING YOUR DOOM AND YOUR DOOM ONLY.”

“It’s okay, Jake. I’m really hot.” Dirk laughs and places the sword over his shoulder. “Gaze upon my delicate abs and fondly regard the meat mammoth dangling betwixt my legs.”

“I WILL DO NO SUCH THING.” Jake moves a hand to point, shifting his head down. “OUT. OUT. I AM NOT PUTTING UP WITH THIS HOGWASH ANY LONGER. TAKE YOUR SHENAIGANS ELSEWHERE *THANK YOU VERY MUCH*.”

Dirk walks over and kisses Jake’s cheek, taking the clothing he had set on the chair in hand. “I’ll be back in a little while.” And so, he steps out the door, alone. 

Before leaving though, he shifts his eyes back to Jake. “And Jake, in case I don’t see you again……….Next time you’re going to make a case for not looking, don’t pop a boner.” 

Jake throws a book at Dirk. Dirk laughs, shutting the door before Jake changes his mind.


	4. Rom Comniption Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karkat reads some quality literature.

HELLO, BEINGS WITHOUT COGNITIVE PREDILECTION TOWARD AUDITORY EXCRETIONS.  
ITS AN INEXPLICABLE TRUTH THAT YOUR SORRY EXCUSE FOR A SPONGE IS LOADED WITH SO MUCH UNNECESSARY BULLSHIT THAT YOU LACK THE ABILITY TO PICK READING MATERIAL FOR YOURSELVES.  
GUESS WHAT?  
IN MY INFINITE AMOUNT OF MERCY, I HAVE DECIDED TO VACATE SOME OF MY EXTREMELY LIMITED TIME JUST TO DISPENSE SOME HALCYON LITERATURE OUT MY SQUAWK BLISTER WHERE IT INEVITABLY WILL PASS THROUGH YOUR AURICULAR SPONGE CLOTS LIKE SOCIAL CUES THROUGH GAMZEE’S CRACKED THINKWARD.  
THE DIVINE WORDS I HAVE WEAVED ARE ALL AS GOOD AS GONE ONCE THEY ARE SPOKEN.  
EXPENDING THE ENERGY TRYING TO HAMMER IN FINE PROSE THROUGH YOUR FATUOUS THINKPAN IS HARDLY AN EXCURSION WORTH TAKING.  
BE REALLY FUCKING GRATEFUL I AM TAKING IT ANYWAY. 

*CLEARS THROAT*

“ONCE UPON A TIME FAR FAR AWAY,  
THERE LIVED A COLONY OF IMBECILIC DICKHEADS WHO THOUGHT THEY WERE THE HEADS OF THE UNIVERSE. IN REALITY THEY WERE MERELY THE UNIVERSES ASSHOLE, BUILT FOR EXPELLING THE EGREGIOUS AMOUNT OF HORSESHIT INTO A LARGE, BLACK VOID SO NOBODY ELSE WOULD HAVE TO DEAL WITH IT.  
THESE EXTRATERRESTRIALS HAD TO BE ENLIGHTENED BY STRANGERS ON THE INTERNET, NOT EVEN FROM THEIR OWN WORLD, OF THEIR FATES BECAUSE THEY STRUGGLE TO ASCERTAIN THE ABILITY TO PERFORM EVEN THE MOST BASIC OF GRUB-LEVEL ACTIVITIES.  
IT IS GENUINELY A WONDER WHY THEY DIDN’T DIE MORE THAN THEY ALREADY DID.  
THROUGH THIS, THERE WAS HOPE TO BE SALVAGED FOR THE MISERABLE PILES OF DIRT YET.  
THE HEIR OF THEIR PITIFUL ROCK, MOST PRONE TO SIPHONING THE AFFECTIONS OF OTHERS FOR DOING JACK-NOTHING CONSISTENTLY, EVENTUALLY GAINED SOME MODICUM OF COMPETENCE THANKS TO THE AFOREMENTIONED INCESSANT FAWNING OF OTHER MEATSACKS.  
HE LED HIS ASSHOLE CARAVAN UP EVERY HILL THEY CAME TO FACE,  
AND EVEN THOUGH THE MOST WISE ONE WANTED TO BLOW UP EVERY HILL AND PROCEED TO STAB THE PIECES WITH RECREATIONALLY DEVELOPED SLENDER STEEL,  
THEY SURPRISINGLY DID VERY LITTLE DAMAGE TO ANYTHING.”

Karkat flips the page. His normally loud speech gradually slips into outright screaming. 

“AN ATTRACTIVE MALE IN A MUCH MORE DEVELOPED (THOUGH STILL EXCEEDINGLY SHITTY) UNIVERSE ONCE MET THE HEIR OF THE PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED OVER-GLORIFIED DUSTPILE.  
THE WAY BETTER THAN THE HEIR KNIGHT DIDN'T HAVE THE SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT THAT CAME ALONG WITH BEING PREENED, AND THE MEETING WAS EXPONENTIALLY MORE WORTHWHILE TO HIM.  
IT WAS NOT A MEETING ENGENDERED FROM WHIMSY, BUT OF SOLIDIFIED FATE, AS INEVITABLE AS IT WAS TERRIBLE TO GO THROUGH.  
BILE CHURNS IN MY SQUEAL PIPETTE JUST DESCRIBING THIS.  
IN A BARREN FIELD THEY SET OUT TO SEE ONE ANOTHER,  
RIDING WHITE HOOFBEASTS, THEIR EBONY KERATIN FILAMENTOUS BIOMATERIAL FLOWING GRACEFULLY IN THE BREEZE LIKE SILK HELD IN FRONT OF AN INDUSTRIAL AIR VACATOR.  
CURSES ARE WOVEN FROM THEIR FUCKING CHAGRIN TUNNELS LIKE LAVA ERUPTING OUT OF A VOLCANO, THE METAPHORICAL NEIGHBORING VILLAGES OBLITERATED WHILE A STUPID ADVENTURER AND HER ASININE RIDING MACHINE ARE FORCED TO WATCH.  
THEIR HOOFBEASTS GALLOPED AND HEADBUTTED EACH OTHER WITH THE RANCOR OF A THOUSAND SUNS BURNING IN UNISON, THE CURSING OF THE WARRIORS SCATHING WITH INCREASINGLY CUTTING PRECISION. SHITTY SLAM POETS TRIPPED OVER THEIR OWN INCAPACITY TO CAUSE CONFLAGRATIONS HALF AS JARRING. SOME WERE KILLED BY THEIR OWN AMOUNT OF DUMB.  
THE TWO SORRY EXCUSES FOR LIVING MATTER BOTH DISMOUNTED FROM THEIR WHINNYING HOOFBEASTS, THEIR POWERBAGS EJECTING AN AMOUNT OF SWEAT THAT WOULD MAKE EQUIUS UNCOMFORTABLE, RAGE FILLING EVERY FIBER OF THEIR SLOWLY DESECRATING SHELLS.  
THEY IMMEDIATELY THREW PUNCHES AT ONE ANOTHER,  
EACH HIT FILLED WITH MORE VITRIOL THAN THE LAST. THE BRUISES THAT BEGAN TO FORM WERE NOT MARKS NOT OF A SHITTY PORTION OF A HALF-ASSED MINOR PEEVEFEST, BUT OF A TRUE KISMESITUDE, A DEEP RUNNING HATRED SO POTENT THAT EVEN LORD HIT-LIST WOULD SHED A DISGUSTING GREEN TEAR IN THE WAKE OF THEIR PREPONDERANCE OF MIXED, EXPELLED BLOOD.  
THEY BOTH FELL TO THE GROUND, ENRAPTURED IN THE THROES OF MUTUAL AGONY, BRINGING THEIR SWOLLEN LIPS TOGETHER IN ORDER TO CHEW EACH OTHER’S FACE OFF IN AN ATROCIOUS SHOW OF-”

Karkat bites down on his lip, his hands twisting as if knotting an imaginary noose. his eyes became bloodshot, his face turned red with seething rage.

“GENUINE UNADULTERATED ANIMOSITY TO THE LIKES OF WHICH PARADOX SPACE CANT SO MUCH AS HEAR ABOUT WITHOUT WRITHING LIKE THE DISGUSTING FUCKING SLIME APPENDAGES THAT BROUGHT IT INTO EXISTENCE TO BEGIN WITH. THEY PROCEED TO RIP-”

Karkat lapses into an all out screaming fit, bashing his head against the wall closest to him. He drops his fine prose.  
It’s really not polite to fanboy this hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is ridiculous. 
> 
> That aside, I’ve been meaning to try something with Karkat for a while. Mainly because he’s one of the hardest characters to write. Not for lack of understanding, but for lack of necessary wit. His communicative pattern is almost identical to Daves, and Dave is already incredibly hard to write accurately because he’s able to fling out next level metaphors like shit was shade in an antique store. On top of it, when Karkat and Gamzee’s speech patterns are messed up, they are completely unpleasant to read. First thing that comes to mind is a flood of ‘fuck fuck fuck fuck’ without substance. Fuckety fuck fuck, fuckers, shit’s fucked up. And fucking nobody wants to read fucked up shit. 
> 
> Awards go to the practiced Karkats.  
> Double awards to the few readers able to pick out the Kino no Tabi reference in the text.


	5. Locked Out Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A horror story based on Dave.  
> While the other stories are relatively docile, on this one,  
> TW: Mass death.

It has been 62 days since I last witnessed the shining of the morning sun. It has been 62 days since I last witnessed the shining of the evening's moon.

Concisely put, I am trapped, now and forever onward, though it is disputable that I have never been free.

The 63rd day before this one did not sing of abnormality, but strictly spoke in the tongues of normality, of the mundane. My brother left me to my lonesome, keeping to his room in order to spawn whatever grievance against imagination's sanctum preoccupied his thoughts. My own mind drifted as it frequently did in the confines of my room, my back against my computer chair, red eyes trained on the window, the occasional caw of a bird disrupting the usual internal, infernal havoc corrupting the confines of my skull.

A cold wind seeped in from the opened window, tainting my room as the rancor of the birds chimed and chimed again, one after another after another. Meticulous, controlled, mocking me for something they knew but were incapable of telling me. On the 62nd cacophony from a bird's throat, time began to freeze for me and only me, as it does every day. I am rather gracious in that sense, as well as grateful. I've always been poor with time. Being granted some semblance of reprieve from the horror of time's burning candle filled me with joy, though I cannot say happiness, as leaving the glow leaves the uncertainty of the dark.

I took the hand of the other me, one of many mes, walking across a path only we may walk on. The path is long, seemingly endless, clear yet concrete. If not for the sound of my feet against it, I would have thought myself walking on air. While that particular path was bound to me and me alone, timelessness is paved with many unseen paths. The opportunities on them boundless when nobody else is around to limit them, the worth of these opportunities clear as the path itself.

Clarity, while seemingly innocuous, is fearsome. The world from the still of a clock’s hand seems less crazy, less corrupted, but calculated in a manner that gives the illusion of an existence not tethered by the strings of predestination- Strings only clear when the boundaries of time are lost. Holding fast to myself, I would study the strings of fate, the dream of setting myself and others free dimming, drowning, dying with every day allowed to pass when the realm of the timeless was left. Soon, it became abundantly clear that trying to alter the strings was foolish, breaking them more foolish still.

Every trip on the path, when I would remain tethered to the feathered me, we would climb higher and higher, farther and farther on the seemingly endless dream, falling short of the end of the path until the 63rd day before this one. Our trips would end with peremptory goodbyes, the crows following the elusive, feathered me wherever he would ascend to. I frequently asked why we had to walk, why I couldn't simply deal with one thing or another within my room, why he would leave and come, and why he would seldom speak while I held thousands of words, and he would always respond with a smirk, though never any answers.

Perhaps that was for the best.

On the 63rd day before this one, he brought me to the end of the path. There was a room at the end, a room that looked identical to mine in every way imaginable with the exception that it was not attached to a larger structure at all. It was a room in space, surrounded by space, a black void I dared not tread in lurking beyond it. He laughed and urged me to enter the room, teasing about shoving me into the void if I did not. While his voice chimed with its normal, jovial candor, I felt deeply unsettled by the nature of his threat. My hand fell upon the room's door, the wood feeling identical to the one I knew.

Evidently, I had known both all along.

I opened up the door, and to my shock, horror, and revulsion, laid 62 dead bodies of mine. All of me. Blood stained the walls, some bodies hardly intact, some positioned as though they had been speaking to one another before atrocity fell. My winged self closed the door, leaving me to turn in shock. I struggled to open the door, turning the knob, slamming myself the wood, kicking and punching with all of my might, abundantly clear to me by the blood on my wounded knuckles that my efforts were to no avail. I peered out the window to view a different, living version of me, walking back down the ineffable path to the room I once knew.

I should have been angry in that moment. I should have been angry. Sorrowful. But in the terror of it all, I only felt joy.

There was me, holding me, granting me days hopefully brighter than the days I once knew.

The area around the room since then has fallen dark, and nothing out of it can be seen. Wasting energy to try to change that seems foolish. The room reeks more pungently of the scent of rotting corpses now, a scent I am bound to emanate in timelessness and in time both. I am bound to. I am.

And I am me, whoever I am.  
I'm weak. I'm beaten. I'm doomed, and I'm running out of me to consume.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon Dave makes dick jokes regularly, and roleplays as a furry with the hardest buttock in the goddamn jungle. On top of the voice here, contrast is fierce.


	6. Eridan Journals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inner sactum of Eridan's journal. Which is for war. Nothin' frivolous or frippery like.

* * *

 

dear journal,

i fear feferi is gettin more and more distant from me

wwe havve been running this wwhole moirail routine for a long wwhile noww and im beginning to become concerned that it might be this wway forevver

im not entirely dissatisfied wwith hauling wwhales ovver in her giant flipping monstrosity's general direction

hell they make great target practice

and wwhen it comes to leading a revvolt on the revvolting polluting sacks of shit called lowwbloods practice can only make perfect

do you think livving on land wwill result on people calling me a hypocrite

once the scum havve died i dont wwant any negativve remarks on my person

historically speakin i need to maintain as clean a record as possible if i wwant to maintain public support

maybe if i keep strong enough a hold on the populace fef wwill havve a change of heart towward me

fuck my life

 

* * *

 

dear journal,

i tripped ovver some loww-blooded piece of fuckin trash today wwhile i wwas out survveing land

it resulted in some dirt getting on my shoes an scarf not to mention my fuckin rings got scuffed up

i couldnt let the matter go unresolvved wwhat wwith the contention betwween caste lines becoming so heated lately

so i kicked them until they fell after wwhich point i punched them into oblivvion

noww there is blood on my shoes and blood on my rings

fuck my life

 

* * *

 

dear journal,

i did some contemplating ovver genocide plan #333- the plan that invvolvved cyanide because a non-numerical reference is better for keeping things locked in my thinkpan

it seems all fine and dandy wwhen its stuck in the contemplation process but thinking about it applied to actuality leavves me feelin a tad bit apprehensivve

first of all getting enough cyanide to take care of evvery livving dirtbreather is going to be arduous

second of all there is no method of ensuring that none of the stuff hits the wwater and if shit does hit the fan like it has a propensity to there wwill be nothin prevventing the gradual demise of the one place i givve a hoot about

fuck my life

 

* * *

 

dear journal,

my flame of anger wwith vvris lately seems to be going out

wwe had a fairly lock and key sort of hatred goin on back wwhen wwe used to duel

but noww she wwont so much as talk to me wwithout me talking first let alone send the random curses that she used to

fuck my life

 

* * *

 

dear journal,

sollux is an angel im sure of it

hes obnoxious and i wwant to shoot the fuck out of him for bein grotesque

only differences are that angels are actually frightening and less predisposed to shelling out drama like a coddamn wwhine vvending machine

fuck my life

 

* * *

 

dear journal,

kan isnt evven helping me sort out the travvesties occurring in my quadrants

FUCK my life

 

* * *

 

dear journal,

im apparently gordon freeman noww because i only got half a life

actually i only havvvve half a body

thanks kan

fuck her life

 

* * *

 


End file.
